


Anyone Can Kill

by ratatouillefan69



Category: Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Child Death, Necrophilia, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratatouillefan69/pseuds/ratatouillefan69
Summary: Remy is really upset that he's no longer a chef and decides to try and make amends. I was challenged to write this fic, and then challenged again to post it in honor of Ratatouille's 13th birthday. I NEVER TURN DOWN A CHALLENGE. Post-ending fic.
Relationships: Alfredo Linguini/Remy/Colette Tatou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Anyone Can Kill

The final guests had long since left the dining room of La Ratatouille, leaving the building still and quiet. It was late, a Tuesday night, and the small Parisian bistro had just barely broken even on its sales. Business boomed in the beginning, when it was fresh and new and still had curious customers coming in to see what was left of the Gusteau legacy. Its novelty was underscored by certain aspects surrounding its conception that the public had speculated on from the beginning: how curious that La Ratatouille was open for business not even a few months after the disgraceful closing of Gusteau’s. How curious that Gusteau’s son, Alfredo Linguini, had inherited his father’s affinity for cooking, and yet was merely a head server. How curious that the chef, Colette Tatou, refrained from naming herself the head chef. When you asked, she would simply grin and say, “It is an industry secret.”

But the mystery surrounding La Ratatouille had long since vanished. It was years later, now, when its hype had come to a complete halt. Only tourists straggled in and out of its doors, and they balked at the prices, said the portions were too small. The Americans were the worst: loudly complaining about the food, leaving the table a mess, and worst of all not washing their hands. (Remy would watch them from the ceiling in the bathroom, curious about the human’s habits.) The bistro was known for its menu, reminiscent in quality of the great chef Auguste Gusteau, obviously cooked with love and care. The ratatouille itself had the reputation of being among the best in Paris, and attracted global attention after famous cooking personalities featured them on various shows, such as Netflix’s _Ugly Delicious_. When customers ordered it, even the most skeptical were blown away by its quality.

Why the restaurant was failing, no one could say. Remy understood that things had changed purely from Linguini and Colette’s arguments. They knew he could understand what they were saying, so they would argue in the office, but they would often scream at each other for hours on end when the restaurant was empty and money was being wasted. Remy had also been forbidden from the kitchen itself, and his family had to move elsewhere. The colony preferred the cushy warmth of La Ratatouille to the cold, damp sewers that ran under the streets of Paris.

Even Django, Remy’s father, lamented the loss of La Ratatouille’s ceiling. Remy could still hear his response to the news that the colony had to leave. He sighed, shook his head, and was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “We spend years iving in the sewers, and we finally get paradise. Then we lose it, just like that. Goes to show how fast things can change, eh, son?” His dad playfully punched his shoulder, a look of sadness glinting in his eyes, and Remy could do no more than give a troubled nod. Remy moved with them, seeing that he was no longer allowed in the restaurant – he had no real stakes in it, no legal say, as the law hardly recognized the needs and desires of rats – yet the question of what happened haunted him every single day. It had been months since he stepped foot in the restaurant, and had no idea what the state of it was.

It was on this Tuesday night that Remy was plagued by these same thoughts, looking up into the stars and trying to remember the constellations he learned from watching television so long ago. The stars twinkled in the night sky, but he couldn’t help but notice the dark clouds that had gathered in the distance. For now, though, it was still. He gave the air a sniff. Yes, a storm was coming soon. He could sense it, like most animals could. He had left quietly from the colony while everyone was sleeping to get fresh air. Now, he was distracted by the celestial bodies that pockmarked the sky. Outside of the sewers, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, he felt most at home when he was alone. He was surrounded by apartments and business buildings, and he was far from the nearest restaurant. His involvement with La Ratatouille had turned him off of the industry for good.

The menu might have changed. Colette seemed to be endlessly possessive of the menu. She never seemed to be willing to give Remy the credit he deserved. She was glad to allow him to garnish plates of Ratatouille, but gave him very little creative control of anything else. At first, he was glad to have the ability to spend more time with his family. As time went on, however, he realized that this arrangement meant that he got no real recognition for much. When it came time to choose a menu, he looked through recipe cards and chose the options that seemed the most appetizing, requiring only the best ingredients. When he presented his choices to Colette, she made a face. “ _Non_ , I do not think these will be good. Not for the guests that will be coming here.” Linguini did little to defend him. All it took was a little bit of pussy for him to become confident. Remy had grown to resent him, what he and Colette began to represent. He never told any of the rats about the arrangement the three of them had, but it gnawed away at him, especially on nights like this.

The sewer stank of shit and piss, and the food the rats were now made to eat was rotten and ran the risk of being poisoned. Such a risk was even more likely, living in the big city, and after the accidental death of a juvenile rat Remy was forced into becoming the poison sniffer. He was back at square one: living in the sewers with his rat colony and smelling garbage multiple times a day to check for poison. When he thought about his journey with Gusteau’s, he wanted to take the poisoned food when no one was watching and have a final feast. The only reason he didn’t was because he wanted his last meal to be delicious, not crumbled up scraps from a human’s who-knows-what-from-who-knows-where.

Remy stretched his back and looked up at the building he sat in front of, gauging its height. He might be able to see La Ratatouille from here, depending on where the building was. He often thought about sneaking into the building when nobody was there to stop him, but always decided against it. What was done was done. They had effectively fired him from his own restaurant. There was no reason for him to have any desire for closure. And yet, he wondered…

He sighed heavily and began to scale the height of the building. His nails clawed onto the brick walls with desperation and he tried as hard as he could to not think of the fall that he might take with one false move. When he reached the top, he looked at Parisian skyline with awe, and was brought back to that same moment years ago, when he discovered that he had been living under Paris all along. He felt his chest become heavy as his eyes caught onto the old Gusteau building, which had been abandoned and unused since its closing. No one wanted a building that was quite literally famous for its rat problem, and the colony couldn’t stay. The memories there were too painful for everyone, especially Remy.

He eventually found La Ratatouille. It was nestled just outside of downtown Paris, not nearly as close to the Eiffel Tower as Gusteau’s, but still. It was far, but not too far for him to be gone for more than a few hours. The night was still young, and nobody from the colony had noticed his absence quite yet. He sat and pondered for a moment what the possibilities might be if he made the trek. Before he could make up his mind, he was already on his way.

...

The streets were as busy as they always were – cars and the occasional motorcycle still barreled down the narrow cobblestone roads. Remy walked as closely to the buildings as possible, ready to duck and hide at first sight of a human. He hadn’t gone this far from the colony in a long time. He had thought about making this trip before, but always decided against it at a risk of something going horribly wrong. What if he saw Linguini? Or worse, Colette? He didn’t think that they would respond violently, but something about seeing them made him feel sick with anxiety.

His nose caught a whiff of a familiar scent. He sniffed the air and knew instantly that it was ratatouille. Not just any ratatouille. His recipe.

He followed the scent to the familiar sight of La Ratatouille, looking the same as it always did. The plants that sat outside of it were perfectly trimmed, and the windows had just been freshly cleaned. Remy peered carefully through the window and saw that the lights were all turned off. There wasn’t even light coming from the kitchen; all of the inside was shrouded in darkness. He gently pushed his body against the door and it didn’t budge. As he suspected, the restaurant had been closed, and Linguini and Colette had likely just left, given the lingering scent of ratatouille in the air.

Remy looked about his immediate surroundings for a hole, any hole, one that his head might fit into. There was a small crack near the front entrance that was just large enough for him to fit, and he felt the brick and mortar scrape against his fur as he crawled into the building. For all of their financial struggle, the restaurant itself seemed to be very well-maintained. The floors smelled heavenly and had clearly just been freshly cleaned. Linguini was never much of a cook, but his skill at serving was unmatched. He had a certain balance about himself when he was working as a waiter, and what grace he lacked in his everyday life was juxtaposed against the ease at which he rollerskated around the dining room floor. That was always a memorable gimmick at La Ratatouille, yet still was seemingly not enough to keep people coming.

Remy sniffed the air again. He missed the familiarity of this place. He could still remember scoping it out with Colette and Linguini when the mortgage had been finalized, before it could be decorated, when it was empty and full of potential. Linguini beamed at him and said, “Take a good look, Little Chef. In a few weeks, this place is gonna look great.” He was holding Remy in the palm of his hand and showed him the full perimeter of the dining room. “We did it—I mean, _you_ did it. Can you believe it? I mean, things kind of ended… um… they weren’t so good at… the other restaurant. You know. _Dad’s_.” Looking back, Remy always found it strange that Linguini seemed to force himself to refer to Gusteau as his father.

“Well, now we all have a chance to start over,” Colette said brusquely. She had never been one to dwell on the past or regret her decisions. Once Gusteau’s was deemed closed, she wasted no time suggesting they try opening up their own restaurant. “We can be something new, _oui_? _Un nouveau occasion_. We shall push forward, try something new. With Little Chef,” she smiled, “it will not be such a problem.”

He sighed, thinking about the current state of things. Perhaps he could return, if he plead enough. He could make a case for himself somehow. He could read, and when his father wasn’t looking, he taught himself to write from memory using a discarded piece of charcoal that had miraculously fallen into the sewers. He could write a plea on the typewriter and surprise them both with it, make them truly understand the passion he had for the restaurant. Yes, that had to be it. It had to be done.

He made his way through the dining room and entered the kitchen, where he was immediately unsettled by the smell of something… _wrong._ It was both new and disturbingly familiar, but he couldn’t quite put a name on it. He had smelled it before, for sure, but he could not remember when. He shook his head. He had to focus. He had to work on writing his plea.

The office door had been left creaked open, and Remy made his way inside. The smell was less pervasive in the office, but it was nonetheless still present. _What on Earth is that?_ He thought to himself. Perhaps the restaurant’s cleanliness had gone into disarray in his absence. Yet another point to plead for his case.

He climbed up to the desk and gazed at the enormity of the typewriter, so much larger than he remembered. Each key was as large as one of his paws, and he was no longer confident that he would be able to write efficiently. But he cracked his little rat fingers, rolled his shoulders, and got to work. Nothing worth having in life came easily, especially not the repair of his tarnished reputation.

…

Linguini cursed under his breath.

“What?” Colette asked.

They were just about to relax in their bed after a grueling day of getting nothing done. Linguini searched through the pants pockets he had worn that day, then cursed more loudly. “Dammit!”

“What? What is it?” she demanded.

“I left the papers at the restaurant.”

Colette rolled her eyes. “Ugh. We need to have them signed by tomorrow morning!”

“Should I… go back? Maybe they’ll be more understanding if we just explain--”

“Explain what? That we somehow forgot them? Do you think that will go over well?”

He didn’t respond.

“Well?”

“I’m going.”

“Are you?”  
  
“Yes! I’m going.”

“Good.”

He hastily put on his shoes and jacket and bounded briskly towards La Ratatouille.

…

Remy’s arms ached from the effort it took for him to write. He was only about twenty words in, barely enough to really express himself. He looked at the clock. It was 11:47 PM. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and clapped his hands together to keep himself awake. The exhaustion of running around the streets of Paris was finally getting to him, along with the strange smell of the kitchen.

Just as he was about to rest his eyes closed, he heard the doorknob jiggling. His heart began to race. Was there anywhere he could hide? His eyes darted around the desk, and he could hear Linguini’s voice muttering in a muffled tone behind the door. Not him. Not now.

He ducked behind the typewriter and cowered in its shadow. _Don’t make any noises. Don’t make any noises. Don’t make any noises_. He heard the door creak open and heard the light switch on, and he sucked in air through his nose as the room was suddenly flushed with a bright light. He peeked ever so quietly from behind the laptop to take a good look at him.

Linguini looked more or less the same. Tall, lanky, weak chin. But he looked exhausted, with his body language so marked by defeat that it was a wonder he was able to walk at all. Remy was overtaken by a sense of solidarity with him. He wasn’t the only one who had been forced back into square one.

“Where is it?” he heard Linguini say. Remy ducked behind the typewriter again and heard the sounds of Linguini shuffling various papers and books around. “Where did I…” his voice trailed off, but the sounds of him rummaging could still be heard. Remy’s heart sank as he heard the lanky Italian step towards the work desk. It was then that he realized that the draft of his letter was still in the typewriter itself.

He could hear Linguini continuing to look, and then stopping. “What is this?” he said. Remy held his breath as Linguini pulled the paper out of the typewriter and began to read it out loud. “Dear former associates,” he said, not masking the confusion in his voice, “I wish to work with you again at this restaurant. It is a passion for me, and…” That was where the letter stopped. Linguini sputtered for a few moments before blurting into the air, “Is someone in here? In the office?”

Remy was quiet. His entire body was frozen with fear.

“If… if you don’t come out, I’m calling the police!”

Remy was still quiet. He had no idea what to do. But he mustered up what little courage he had left and stepped out from behind the typewriter and faced a shocked Linguini.

The look he gave Remy was a mix of horror, confusion, regret, and sadness. They stared at each other for what felt like several minutes until their stunned silence was punctured by two words: “Little Chef?” He sounded incredulous. “Is that really you? I thought I would never see you again!” Just from his reaction, Remy could tell that he never expected to see him again. It was at that moment that he knew his return was never something that Linguini had even considered.

Remy nodded hesitantly.

“Did… were you writing? You wrote this?”

Remy nodded again.

Linguini was clearly at a loss of words. “I had no idea you could write. Could you write this whole time?”

Remy shook his head.

Linguini was utterly prepared for the possibility that a rat could write. “You… you must be tired. Right? Because of all the writing? You’re so tiny. The typewriter is so big.” His confusion had turned to wonder. This little rat could still amaze him and defy all expectations. “Do you want a pen and paper?”

Remy winced. The thought of holding a pen made him nervous.

“But, wait, I think we might have ink… so you can just write with your hands…”

Remy stood up curiously and nodded. _That might work_.

“Go on," Linguini said, giving him a small canister of ink. 

Remy dipped his paw into the canister and wrote on a nearby piece of paper. _REMY RETURN?_

Linguini’s expression went from wonder and amusement to anxiety. “Oh, um… well…”

Remy frowned. _I WANT TO._

“I—I know, Little Chef. I know. It’s just that…”

_COME BACK. MAKE THINGS BETTER._

Linguini rubbed his forehead nervously. Remy gave him a meaningful look and dipped his hand back into the ink.

_MISS YOU._

Linguini picked up the small rat and held him in his hands. “Well… I would love for you to come back, Little Chef. I mean, Colette, she does, too. She may not _say_ it, but, you know… I know her well enough. She feels really bad about how things left off. But you gotta understand, it _had_ to be that way. With everything going the way it is, it’s just… a lot less risky for everybody if you and your buddies stay away from here.”

Remy looked dejected. Linguini pet his head. It was then that he finally found the papers, folded neatly in front of the typewriter. “Ha! It’s always the last place you look.” Remy gave him a curious look and Linguini cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering what these are.”

 _Uh, yeah_?

“Okay, so… I don’t really know how else to say this. I don’t want you to be too upset. But… we’re selling the building.”

Remy’s eyes widened.

Linguini exhaled. “Little Chef, we just can’t do it anymore. We can’t manage this place. Business is dying. It’s the middle of tourist season, and you know how many tables we had today? Six. We had six tables. We used to have hundreds of reservations a day. This place used to boom. And we can’t do it anymore. It’s even starting to affect _us_.”

Remy knew that _us_ meant _them_.

“You can’t come with us. We’re not even sure if we can afford to live in Paris anymore. We’re supposed to be signing the papers to get the closure started tomorrow. We’ll be around for a few more weeks, still, but… we don’t think it’ll be more than a month before we close up for good.”

Remy slumped over. All of his effort, his entire dream… wasted. He wanted to cry, to throw something, to throw up, to scream. It was all too much. Linguini was having a hard time telling him all of this, of course, but every sentence was a new knife in his heart. La Ratatouille used to be a point of pride. It was now an unmitigated disaster. He had felt a similar sort of sadness and anger when Gusteau’s closed, but this was his restaurant from the beginning. His vision. He was the mascot, even. It had his name and identity all over it.

And that smell. That sickening smell.

He had to know what it was. This would be his last chance.

He gestured his head down for Linguini to put him down on the floor, and without hesitating ran out of the office.

“Little Chef?” Linguini gasped.

Remy ran towards the smell. He sniffed the air and it pointed him towards the cooler. He darted before Linguini could stop him.

“Little Chef, _no_!” Linguini yelled.

Remy ignored him. He scaled up the wall to the cooler and opened it, just like he had opened the cooler at Gusteau’s when he was stealing food for his family. He jumped into the cooler by the light switch and the enormity of the smell hit him full force. His entire body was filled with adrenaline, and he felt alarm as he searched around the room for the smell.

He arrived at a small unmarked box where it was strongest, where the source had to be, and opened it.

And then he remembered the first time he smelled it.

The rat who had been killed by unspotted poison had been a child.\

Her name was Anne Marie.

She had found a juicy strawberry that had been dipped in chocolate (or at least the remains of one) and before sending it to be tested, had taken a single bite from it. She died almost instantly, within minutes, and it took hours for her body to be found. Remy had been the one who found her. He followed her scent, provided to her by her parents. She had a particular piece of fabric that she always carried with her, and had left in the sewer. Her mother had let out a primal scream at the sight of her body, gnarled and torn apart by ants that had descended immediately. Remy could still remember her little face, warped by pain and misery that can only be experienced from ingesting rat poison. The ants had torn into her flesh and carried bits and pieces of her skin away. She was still being ravaged by the ants by the time they found her: her eyes had been eaten and left craters in her skull, and her mouth was forced open and small ants could be seen crawling in and out of it. Her stomach had been split open by the ants and her intestines were exposed.

That was where he first caught the scent. He had forced it all out of his mind entirely.

Until now.

He was frozen over the box as he heard the door creak open. He expected Linguini to be as shocked as he was, but his expression was similar to that of a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Linguini stared at him for a beat, and then said, “Little Chef, I can explain.”

Remy shuddered. He was paralyzed by the smell. It traveled up to his nostrils and made him feel sick. Much of the meat was fresh. Some of it had been there for a few days. He hated that he could tell the difference.

“Things have been tight around here for a long time. Six months ago, when we first let you go… we almost had to foreclose. We couldn’t find any real buyers. Nobody wanted to work with us. And… corners were cut… And…”

Remy’s jaw was slack. He couldn’t believe it. It had to be a joke. A sick joke.

“It wasn’t anybody you could have known.”

Remy jumped down from the shelf and, before Linguini could prepare himself, he climbed up the human’s leg and clawed his way aggressively up to his head. He promised himself after Ego’s review was published that he would never pretend to be a human again. He would never touch Linguini’s hair in order to puppeteer him. His work would be his own. He would take control of his passion.

Tonight was an exception.

“Little Chef, _stop_!” Linguini roared. “What are you doing?! You don’t understand!”

Remy’s heart was pounding out of his chest. The smell overtook the cooler. He grabbed two tufts of Linguini’s hair and slammed his head as hard as he could into the wall. Linguini screamed. Remy forced his head into the doorway of the cooler and, using Linguini’s own body, shut the door repeatedly onto his head. Linguini yelped with pain as the force of the metal door collided with his head.

“Please, stop!”

Remy was only getting started. He slammed the door twice more, and Linguini’s voice became more desperate and hoarse as his cries of agony rang through the kitchen. He could hear Linguini’s skull crunch under the force of each blow, and still made each impact harder, _harder,_ as hard as he could possibly manage with Linguini’s strength. By the fifth slam, it hit him.

Just the door wouldn’t be enough. Not when he had an entire kitchen at his disposal.

He took a moment to pause and look around at his environment, then made up his mind. He pulled Linguini upright and walked him to the stoves in the center of the kitchen.

“Where are you taking me?” Linguini slurred. He was still conscious enough to take in his environment, it seemed. Remy was relieved. He wanted him to experience as much of this as he could. He arrived at the first stove he could find and made Linguini turn on one of the burners. It was a gas burner, thankfully. Otherwise this might be more difficult. He raised Linguini’s other hand onto the stove, and turned the burner to the highest possible setting.

“No, _no_ , Little Chef! _Stop! Stop it!_ ” Linguini had regained enough of his clarity to screech at Remy, and the desperation in his voice and eyes was nearly enough to make Remy feel guilty. Linguini’s hand caught fire, and the smell of burning flesh entered Remy’s nose. Human flesh smelled different from any other kind of meat.

He thought to himself, _Hm. This might actually have potential with some cumin, maybe… a nice hint of saffron… Gusteau did swear by it, after all_.

He could hear the sound of Linguini’s skin burning, and a tingle ran down his back. There was something utterly satisfying about the sound of meat cooking. And that was all Linguini was, at this point, really. Just a walking slab of meat. A six-foot-five-inch sack of potential flavors and new dishes. The colony would be happy to try it.

“Please, Little Chef, _please_! Stop this! I’m sorry! We had to do it, really!”

Remy spotted a rack of knives that hung on the wall adjacent to the stove, and he made his final decision. He wanted to see Linguini’s life drain from his eyes. He wanted to be the one to do it, but he finally found a fitting alternative. He pulled on Linguini’s hair, forcing him to stand upright. Remy opened the door and walked Linguini through it, into the kitchen, and walked him straight ahead.

“Where are you taking me?” Linguini croaked. He had a splitting headache, an he could feel the warm rush of blood travel down his face. It was then that he saw the knives. “No.” The knives that Colette had sharpened only hours before. “Little Chef, please!”

Remy ignored the pleading for his life. When he arrived at the knives, he pulled one of Linguini’s arms up, and grasped his hand onto the largest one available to him: the carving knife. He wondered briefly if Linguini could even tell what a carving knife was, and felt a deep frustration that he, a rat, knew more about how a kitchen should be run than Linguini did. How he, a rat, had more training and knowledge on food than either of his human counterparts. It was then that he forced Linguini to drive a knife into his own stomach.

Linguini screamed with pain. Remy dragged his hand as deeply as it could go, and then, while it was still in his body, upwards. The sickening sound of Linguini’s intestines being torn apart rang through Remy’s ears, and the animalistic cries that erupted from Linguini’s mouth reminded him of Anne Marie’s mother. No matter what he did to this human, it would never be enough. He pulled the knife out, repositioned it, and then forced the knife into Linguini’s neck. He pulled the knife out again and stabbed it into Linguini’s cheek, his side, his arms. He stabbed the knife into Linguini’s chest, breaking bone. _He’s surprisingly strong_! Remy thought to himself.

His screams became more garbled and Linguini’s head was forced back so he could look into Remy’s eyes. He never knew until the last moments of his life that animals could be capable of such hatred, such malice, but looking into Remy’s eyes, he understood the gravity of everything that he and Colette had done to him. He choked out one breath of life, and his body became slack. Remy had to quickly regain control of it, but found that it wasn’t much more difficult to control his body dead than when he was sleeping.

The scent of Linguini’s blood mixed with the scent of the rat meat that was in the cooler, which had been left open. His blood spilled onto the floor, and Linguini’s eyes were half-opened. Remy took a moment to breathe and think. Nothing he could do, at this point, would make up for the deceit and anguish that Linguini and Colette had inflicted upon him, but it would still be satisfying to see all that he could force Linguini through. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was considering all of the new recipes he could try with the remains of Linguini’s body, the potential blend of flavors and the complementary wines. His body might taste delicious with a sharp red.

Perhaps a Cheval Blanc 1947.

…

Colette pulled up to La Ratatouille in her motorcycle.

Linguini had been taking far too long.

He tended to dally about, sure, but never for this long, and never over something so important. If they were still shackled to this restaurant, they might never make it out of debt. They could barely afford the apartment as-is. Selling the restaurant would keep them afloat for a year or two, at least, and they might be able to make it out of Paris and go to a smaller town, someplace cheaper, more affordable. The kind of place to build a home and raise a family. She often wondered about Anton’s childhood town, the rural area of Savoie. Anton had died some years ago, but in his last months would speak constantly of Savoie, his mother, and his illustrious career as a food critic.

But, for now, her focus had to be on the first step. The papers. They needed the papers, and she could not understand why Linguini was taking so long.

Colette entered through the back of the building, where the kitchen was, as she normally did. She dismounted from her motorcycle and walked up to the kitchen doors, which were unlocked. She rolled her eyes. Linguini always had a habit of not locking anything up after himself, and it was not unusual to find the back entrance had been left unlocked, or worse, slightly opened. It was a miracle that they hadn’t been robbed in the years since La Ratatouille had opened, but that was neither here nor there. She could see his silhouette through the tinted glass of the door, and it appeared as though he was standing to the side of the kitchen, facing the wall. She was only slightly perplexed; as much as she loved him, he was quite strange.

Colette opened the door and called out to him, “Linguini! Did you find the papers?”

He didn’t turn towards her. Only half the lights were on in the kitchen, and under the dim light she could only see the shape of his body. She noticed only after walking through the door that his head and shoulders were slumped forward, and his arms were slack on his side. She was about to repeat herself when she caught the unmistakable, lingering scent of burning flesh. She covered her nose and gagged.

“ _Oh, putain!_ Did you burn yourself? It smells like something rotting.” The air was thick with a sticky, metallic smell, too. “What, and you cut yourself? Don’t tell me you were cooking…” She was half-joking, but the longer he went without responding, the more frightened she became. When she looked more closely, she could see a pool of dark liquid forming at his feet. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. She took a step towards him to see him more clearly, then noticed that his hand was bright red, with yellow fat exposed from an enormous sore. “You are hurt!”

Linguini’s back straightened and he turned his head towards her. She saw the gash on his neck, and her blood ran cold. His eyes were half-opened, and she saw the irises in them had become clouded. She also saw, now that she was closer to him, that his skin was more than pale – it was almost white.

“ _Cheri_?” her voice quivered.

Linguini turned around to face her completely. His movements were unsteady, spasmic, and he struggled to face her head-on. Once he had finished, she could see why: his stomach was gashed open, and some of his intestines were hanging out. The dark pool of liquid was actually blood, enough to soak the floor within inches of him. On top of his head, his eyes glinting in the shadows, was Little Chef.

Linguini’s body lunged towards her. His feet were slick on the floor, coated in his own blood. He was almost aerodynamic and came towards Colette with a frightening speed. She turned to run, but as she did, Linguini’s body tripped and landed on her. She was pinned to the floor, unable to do anything but scream. Remy had temporarily lost control of Linguini’s hair and the entire weight of his body kept Colette from moving for the few precious seconds he needed to return to his position once again.

Remy tugged on Linguini’s hair and used his arm to force Colette to turn around. Her eyes were wide and filled with primal panic. He took some satisfaction knowing that he was inflicting this pain upon her, but he wasn’t nearly finished. He knew that she would be coming, but it was only a matter of when. His ears flickered and he felt tense. He couldn’t stand to hear the cacophony of her screeching. There was no time to think of anything else to do.

He dragged Linguini’s hands and wrapped them around Colette’s throat, making sure to press his thumbs as hard as he could. She started to fight back, but the position of her arms prevented her from being able to reach the top of Linguini’s head. She began to gasp as the air left her lungs and the life drained from her body. She put in a final push of effort in the fight for her life, and then… her body was limp, and the screaming stopped.

Remy leaned back and panted. He had never been so aroused in his life. He knew the enchantment of pleasure before, but never with this level of intensity. The bright red tip of his penis was poking through his fur. He gazed over Colette’s body and the cleavage between her plush breasts was only just visible. To Remy, less was more.

He always wondered what it might be like to have sex as a human. He would have never suggested the idea to Linguini. It would have been too weird. But that was when they were friends, when the past meant something. It meant nothing now, and Remy had a hunger for something that wasn’t on the menu. Linguini had thankfully been wearing his pajama bottoms, which would ultimately make this process much easier. He lifted Linguini’s torso and lowered his pants and underwear. At a mere tug of his hair, he saw that Linguini’s cock became completely erect.

Remy used Linguini’s hands to undress Colette. It took some time for him to clasp onto her pants and underwear, but one he got a good grip, he made one forceful pull and removed her clothing. Her bush was thick, but not untrimmed. He spread her legs and the stench of her pussy flew up his nostrils. He was completely overtaken by his desire to fuck.

He pulled Colette’s body up to Linguini’s, careful to watch the angle, and felt a surge of lust come over his body. God, he needed this. How he could get this far without having tried, at least, he couldn’t possibly understand. He had never necessarily been attracted to Colette – not only was she a human, but she simply wasn’t his type – but there was a certain eroticism to controlling Linguini as his rock solid cock slid into Colette. He put his own little rat paw around his red rocket and rubbed rhythmically with every thrust of Linguini’s dick inside of Colette's body. It did not take long for Remy to climax with a shuddering orgasm, leaving drips of rat fuckjuice on top of Linguini’s head.

His work was finished.

He hopped off of Linguini’s head and looked at the clock. 1:46 AM. In seven hours, the restaurant would have opened. Linguini and Colette could have sold La Ratatouille and left Remy and his family in the sewers, nothing more than a distant memory to them. A faint regret. An embarrassing anecdote to tell as a secret to their own children about their past in France. But none of it mattered now. They were dead. Finally dead. Someone would smell them and find the incomprehensible scene of Linguini and Colette both dead, covered in Linguini’s blood, and stinking of rot. Remy would be long-gone and never face consequences, for the secret of this night would die with him. And even then, what police officer would arrest a rat?

Remy was nearing the doors of the kitchen when he stopped and looked back at them both. He had to make a final message.

He dipped his paw into Linguini’s blood and began to write.

…

Officer Dupuis was a well-seasoned member of the Parisian police. In his entire tenure, he had never come across a scene so confusing.

The couple was found on the floor. The male had been stabbed to death, and it was determined that he had died much longer before the female they found underneath him. Their position was troubling. They theorized it had been a rape and murder, but the state of the man’s body made it unlikely that that was the case. They could not possibly understand the circumstances.

“Young couple,” his partner, Officer Rousseau, remarked.

“Mm.”

Dupuis couldn’t help but think that a third party was involved, but could not figure out how. The restaurant was locked. Only the male had the key. The female was seen by witnesses riding her motorcycle to the restaurant about an hour after the male was seen biking.

“Notable for their, uh… ratatouille, I think. My wife and I came here before,” Rousseau said.

“Really?” Dupuis asked. “How was it?”

Rousseau shrugged. “Fine.”

“It wasn’t doing well, I heard.”

“A shame.”

Dupuis stared at the writing on the floor over and over. It was jumbled, and certain letters were backwards, but the writing in blood was as clear as day:

_ANYONE CAN KILL._


End file.
